Bread and Circuses
by dances with irrelevancy
Summary: The morning of the Reaping, Esca goes hunting. It is just another day, after all – he will not let it be more than just another day.


**Summary:** The morning of the Reaping, Esca goes hunting. It is just another day, after all – he will not _let it_ be more than just another day.

 **Pairing:** Esca/Marcus

 **Warnings:** It's based on The Hunger Games. So, you know, death, violence.

 **Notes:** I was haunting the Eagle kink meme and found a 2011 prompt that called for an adaptation of The Hunger Games, with Marcus as Peeta, and Esca as Katniss. I had been looking for that very thing, and given that the prompt was 2011, I figured it wasn't going to magically appear in my life. I'm assuming it's okay to claim the prompt - not entirely sure how it works. Also - obvious title is obvious.

I can't believe I've started an Eagle fanfic. All comments and criticisms gratefully accepted.

 **Disclaimer:** Done purely for fun, since I own nothing Hunger Games or The Eagle of the Ninth-related.

* * *

The day of the reaping is always a quiet one. It's as if people are afraid to say too much, as though they can somehow escape the punishment of the Capitol by keeping their heads bowed and using their lowest voices. It's akin to the way hares freeze when they sense a fox is near. The air is heavy, creaking with tension, but most go numbly about their day, all the while hoping, _not me, not me, just pass me by, not my children, not me._

Everyone thinks - _It must be somebody, of course, but if I am quiet enough, careful enough, lucky enough, why then it may at least be somebody else._

The morning of the reaping, Esca goes hunting. It is just another day, after all – he will not _let it_ be more than just another day. It's a pitiful kind of defiance, since by two o' clock, he will be standing in the square along with everyone else. Still, it is better than nothing, than waiting and worrying and giving the Capitol ownership over his mind as well as his body. So when he wakes in the early morning, he only takes a few breaths of the thick, musty air before throwing off his blanket and shrugging on his shirt, hanging on the hook in the corner. Cottia's goat, Pearl (a good name, Esca always thinks, since she is a perpetual irritation) ignores him, though she casts an eye at his discarded blanket, which he quickly stows away. He has no wish to sleep under a chewed blanket. Again. The goat shifts on the straw and bleats disapprovingly, then loses interest in him. Though, Esca thinks darkly, she will sense it the moment he lets his guard down.

"This was my shed first, you know," he tells her, as he quickly buttons his shirt. "I was here before _you_ were."

It is true. He'd been eleven when his mother died. Five years ago, now. Hunger, everyone said, and she'd been skin stretched tight over bones at the end, but Esca remembers the – the _inwardness_ of her before she'd died, the way she'd pressed the little food they had left into his hands, no matter how much he protested. Like she'd already given up. Esca thinks now that it was half-hunger and half-heartbreak that killed her, and feels the familiar clench of angry pain in his chest.

She wasn't the only one who'd died that year, and enough families had had a hard enough time, including Cottia's, that if there had been a goat _then,_ well…it certainly wouldn't be here _now,_ providing milk and cheese, and butting Esca whenever his back was turned.

"They would have used your bones for soup – so it's no use being all high and mighty now," Esca mutters, as he plucks his forage bag off the hook. The goat continues to ignore him.

He's pulling on his boots when the shed door creaks open.

"I knew it," Cottia says. She stands in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. "You're going hunting."

She's still in her nightdress, a long shabby thing that hangs below her knees. Esca looks at her, and remembers, the way he always does, the nine year old who had followed him around, reaching into her pockets or her schoolbag to pull out the half-burned pieces of ration bread she got from the bakery for them to share. Or sometimes a hard piece of cheese. Once or twice, when things had been very bad, she'd even brought some small lumps of lard wrapped in brown paper. He hadn't wanted to accept, at first, but she'd been implacable, frowning at him until he'd eaten – though Esca thinks it was the fierce, hot gratitude he'd felt in his chest that kept him alive, as much as the food, or the shelter.

But she's fourteen now, and it hits Esca suddenly that she's growing up. She has the same small, freckled face, but she stands straight, and her hair blazes over her shoulders and sets off her colouring. A touch of that awkward, incomplete look that still-stretching bodies have remains – but she's growing into prettiness. It's one of those realisations that feels portentous because of the reaping, the kind that trails fear in its wake, and it's only the familiar ram of Pearl's head against his thigh that brings him back to himself. He makes an irritated noise and pushes at her, and satisfied, she trots over to Cottia, who pets her absently.

"There'll be Peacekeepers everywhere today," Cottia observes. The 'stupid' that belongs at the end of that sentence goes unsaid, but not unheard, and Esca grins.

"Well, luckily the deer don't know that," he says.

"You're not going to bring back a deer today," Cottia says flatly. Esca doesn't answer, and she repeats, more firmly, "You're _not."_

Esca steps close enough to rest a hand on her shoulder. "I'll be careful," he promises.

Cottia scrutinises him narrowly, but nudges Pearl back, and stands aside to let him through the door. "Be back in plenty of time to change," she says.

"Into what?" he says. It's just another cruel trick of the Capitol – to force them all to dress up while two of their community are marked for death, as if it's a special treat or privilege. Besides, all the clothing Esca owns (which isn't much) is old and shabby and worn.

"Dad said you can borrow something of his," Cottia tells him. "So come back early!" she calls as he strides away from the shed, and past the small grey house that stands beside it.

Cottia's parents have grown a little more tolerant of Esca over the years. He understands this, of course –in District 12, it's hard enough to care for your own, and Esca, at eleven, was almost useless, nothing but another open mouth no-one could afford. Though, he thinks with a grim kind of pride, making his way through the almost deserted streets and toward the Meadow, at least he has not remained so. Now, he sits at the table with Cottia and her parents, because he puts the food there. They can't approve of him wholeheartedly of course, because hunting is illegal, and if Esca is ever caught poaching from the woods that surround the district, well…it will be the last time. But no-one refuses extra meat – or coin, if Esca chooses to trade in the market instead. Of course, there are days when game is scarce, and Esca comes back with nothing…but most of the time he has something to contribute, no matter how small.

"You should keep part of it for yourself," Cottia tells him, sometimes. "It's not fair, you giving us so much."

But every time she brings it up, Esca sees the half-burned pieces of bread Cottia had so cleverly thought to entreat from the bakery, and he knows that he will never be able to pay her back what he owes.

The Meadow at last, and Esca takes a deep breath before cutting across the grass to the bushes that conceal the weak spot in the fence – the slight indentation of the ground underneath that Esca can wriggle through on his belly. And then – he is on the other side of the fence, the woods before him, and it feels almost, _almost_ like being free.

Despite the fact that he liberates his bow and arrow from its usual hiding place, in truth, as he makes his way through the woods, he's not listening for game so much as –

"Finally. I was beginning to think that you weren't coming." Liathan – dark-eyed and wild-haired, and the only other person besides Cottia that Esca considers a friend. Liathan is only a year older than Esca, and the only other person Esca knows who hunts in the woods. They hunt together sometimes…more often than not, lately.

"You were up early," Esca observes, cocking his head to the side.

"Oh, you know how it is…the _excitement,"_ Liathan says, with a mocking smile, and Esca feels the corners of his mouth barely turning up.

"You have only one more year, after this," Esca says. After eighteen, their names are no longer entered for the Games.

"Yes. And only two more for you." Voice dry, Liathan continues, "And then we both get to go down into the Pit. Can you believe it?"

The Pit is the district's name for the quarry where most of the able bodied men excavate stone for the fine buildings of the Capitol. At eighteen, you are free from the threat of the Games…but then the Pit opens up and swallows you whole. Unless, of course, you are fortunate enough to be part of the merchant class, with a ready-made trade to ply, or a business to run, the sort of thing that stays in the family, and passes down through generations, keeping you in relative ease – at least, compared to almost everyone else.

The Pit uses people up and spits them out when their backs and spirits are broken, their lungs ruined. It had taken Esca's father first, then his brother. Esca himself is next.

His face wants to twist into a bitter smile, but he keeps his expression as blank as he can and says, "Just our good luck, I suppose."

It's worth it, because Liathan laughs, almost admiring. "Come on," he says, with a curl of his fingers. They find a good place to sit, backs against a wide stone set firmly into the earth, and Liathan unpacks his bag to reveal –

"Honey cakes?" Esca can't help the smile that spreads over his face. There are two, and they smell so good his stomach whines like a dog, begging for a taste.

"To celebrate our good luck," Liathan tells him with a shrug, as he hands Esca his. The stone feels cool and hard against Esca's back, while the pastry crumbles in his mouth, sweet and sticky and rich. He throws his head back, savouring the taste.

"I'm surprised you bought these," he says, after thoroughly chewing and swallowing, careful to wring every bit of enjoyment out of that first delicious bite.

Liathan raises an eyebrow. "Reaping Day only comes once a year."

That isn't what Esca means. They trade with the Aquila bakery, of course – it would be stupid not to, but Liathan's smile sets into a smirk, voice heavy with mockery and eyes hard, whenever they do. He avoids it whenever he can.

"How much did they cost?" Esca asks, licking his fingers before allowing himself another mouthful.

"Don't worry about that," Liathan tells him. "I didn't pay full price – he gave them to me for half-nothing. Feeling charitable on Reaping Day, I suppose."

Oh. Esca stares down at the remainder of the cake in his hand.

"Come on," Liathan nudges his arm, encouraging him to eat. "It's not as if the old man can't afford it."

Ah. He'd traded with Old Aquila, then. Old Aquila doesn't just own the bakery, he's the mayor of the district. He's…all right, as mayors go, at least, Esca supposes so – certainly, he could be worse. He manages the district from behind a cloud of whitening hair and mild blue eyes that nonetheless seem to miss very little. He's not so very old, really, but he seems so. He mostly leaves everyone to get on with things – the best arrangement possible in the circumstances...though of course, it is an arrangement that could change suddenly and without warning, entirely dependent on Old Aquila's whim. He could make it far more difficult for Esca and Liathan to hunt, for example, but he turns a blind eye because he's as fond of meat as anyone, and on the rare occasions they find a patch of wild strawberries, he pays them a good price, and makes strawberry tarts. Cottia's friend Dreda shared one with her once – Cottia said it was the nicest thing she'd ever tasted.

Still, the best that can be said of Old Aquila is that they tolerate him. In a way, he's worse than any of the merchant class, because unlike the rest, Old Aquila originally hails from the Capitol itself. Of course, he isn't exactly in favour…after all, he is _here_ now _,_ living a run down, poor district instead of the glittering Capitol. But even the Capitol cast-offs are treated better than the natives of District 12. Old Aquila'd been made mayor, hadn't he? Even after –

But that's the _other_ thing, and as if by magic, Liathan said, "I wonder if he'll put his name in, after all?"

Esca takes a long time to chew and swallow the last bite of honey cake before answering. For it isn't Old Aquila they're talking about any more, but his nephew.

 _Marcus_ Aquila.

"He said he will," Esca says. Marcus Aquila is sixteen, like Esca, but unlike everyone else in District 12, is exempt from having to put his name in for the Games – because his father had been a competitor. Of course…that wouldn't normally exempt anyone, except that Aquila's father had been a _volunteer._ The children of volunteers don't have to put their names in – a sort of pat on the head from the Capitol for good behaviour. Esca thinks it's a reward that the Capitol can afford because there are, of course, very _few_ volunteers, fewer still who either _have_ children, or live long enough after volunteering to have them. He wonders, sometimes, if that's why Aquila's father had done it. Eighteen and proudly (most say arrogantly) marching up toward the stage to claim a place in the Games…to spare a son who hadn't even been born at the time.

It's a thought that sits uneasily with Esca, considering what had happened afterwards. Because if it was true, then it didn't make what had happened _less_ terrible, but _more_. As well as a complete waste on Aquila's father's part because, "He says he puts his name in every year." Esca keeps his tone matter of fact.

Liathan laughs, low and hard. "Oh yes – because you can always trust an Aquila."

Eighteen, and proudly marching up toward the stage, to claim a place in the Games…only to end it all raving and crawling and begging for mercy…having first stabbed his district partner while his back was turned. Everyone in District 12 knows in excruciating detail exactly what happened. Usually their district's competitors can be relied upon to die quick, inglorious deaths early on in the Games – but Aquila gave one of their more memorable performances, and so it's shown every year, whenever the commentators discuss District 12's chances in the current Games.

Of course, Esca thinks, even if the Capitol never bothered to show the highlights of Aquila's Hunger Games, _they_ wouldn't forget – the people who work in the Pit, their children, Esca, Cottia…and of course, Liathan. It had, after all, been his uncle who Aquila had killed. One of _them_.

It wasn't just because he had died, Esca knows. District 12 is always expected to die. But to have been killed by someone he _knew,_ someone who knew him, as if he were _nothing_ …to watch Aquila's father walk noiselessly toward him, and calmly raise his knife, and plunge it into his back, again and again and again, even after it was clear Liathan's uncle was dead…it still sends a shudder of revulsion down Esca's spine.

Those chosen from District 12 die. Sometimes they kill first. But not _one another. Never_ one another. They've only had one winner in all the years the Games have been going on…and even _he_ hadn't had to make that terrible choice. Perhaps it is the fact that Aquila's father hadn't needed to make that choice, either, that has damned him so thoroughly in everyone's eyes. There'd still been six competitors left when Aquila's father had raised that knife…and after everything he'd done, Aquila's father hadn't even made it to the final five.

And after all that, they'd made Old Aquila mayor, as if none of it mattered at all. Of course, to the Capitol, it didn't.

Liathan has every right to be bitter, to hate the name Aquila, but as Esca studies the hard lines of Liathan's profile, he finds himself saying, "I think Aquila does put his name in for the Games."

Liathan frowns at him, and Esca shrugs. "There's no point in his saying it if it isn't true. He has to know no-one would believe him anyway."

"Not no-one," Liathan murmurs, and the words feel like a dig in Esca's ribs.

Esca doesn't know why he believes Marcus Aquila. Maybe it's as simple as he says – there's no _point_ in Aquila lying. Everyone _expects_ an Aquila to lie. Marcus Aquila is his father's son, after all, and so he pays for his father's sins.

Marcus Aquila has been hated since before he was even born. In the bakery where he is apprenticed, or whenever he's under the watchful eye of his Uncle, the townspeople mostly treat him with the same wary politeness they extend to Old Aquila. But in school, which is full of children who have not learned caution, or how to mask their hate, Aquila is shunned, and shouldered past as if he doesn't exist. He never has anyone to partner with for sports activities, and he eats his lunch alone. This is how he is treated by the _kinder_ half of the student population. There are other, worse things, but Esca has never played any part in those. He is not kind to Aquila, but he is not cruel. Aquila has earned that from him, at least.

Not that Aquila himself has ever spoken out about any of it. Never told his uncle, or the teachers. Maybe he fears worse, if he does. Maybe it is just as Liathan says, and Aquila is every bit the coward his father was, because he never stands up for himself.

But Esca remembers how it was a week ago, waiting for their teacher and the History lesson to begin, with Kenelm making loud remarks about the Games, and _some people_ being even worse than their _fathers –_ if that could be believed – because at least _their_ _fathers,_ treacherous murderers though they might have turned out to be, at least had the courage to _put their names forward._

Esca can still see it – Aquila's perfectly still, stiff back, braced against the words Kenelm was so idly flicking at him…before he had suddenly turned around, surprising everyone, and said, in a calm, clear voice, "I'm putting my name in." For some reason, his eyes had flicked from Kenelm over to where Esca was sitting as he'd added, "I put my name in every year." And, quite mildly, "What do you think, Kenelm? It could be the two of us, this year."

He'd stood up for himself _then,_ and well, leaving Kenelm to splutter into silence, so Esca thinks that maybe it isn't cowardice at all that keeps Aquila silent most of the time.

And then, of course, there is the _other thing_ that happened _–_ but Esca doesn't like to think of that. He hates knowing that he is in Aquila's debt. He tries to flick away the memory of Aquila's face, set in fear, but not for _himself_ , the pressure of his fingers around Esca's wrist, and the shake in his voice as he said, "Come on, quick, Esca – before they" –

But Liathan is looking at him, so thankfully he doesn't have time to ponder this. Instead he says, "Cottia believes him too, so it's not just me."

"Oh, well, if _Cottia_ believes Aquila, then it's settled," Liathan says with a roll of his eyes.

Esca frowns. Cottia is not in the same class as he and Aquila, of course, but she always lingers in the bakery when they go for their ration bread, watching Aquila with her sharp, curious eyes and asking questions he seems happy to answer. She's fourteen now, and stubborn and headstrong enough that she _would_ set her eyes on Aquila as a first crush. Probably even _because_ of all the reasons that he is such a bad choice, and not in spite of them.

The last time they'd been in the bakery, he and Cottia had been the only ones, and Cottia had leaned on the counter and asked, "Is it true, what they're saying? That you're going to put your name in for the Games?"

Beside her, Esca had gone hot – _he_ hadn't told Cottia, the news had simply spread like wildfire after History class. It made him uncomfortable that Aquila might think that Cottia had got her information from Esca. As if Aquila were a frequent topic of discussion between them. _I don't talk about you,_ Esca had thought fiercely. _I barely ever even mention your name._ Of course, he refused to say this, because in a strange way, opening his mouth to tell Aquila he didn't matter to Esca felt oddly like saying the opposite. Let Aquila think what he liked – it shouldn't matter to Esca.

Aquila, though, hadn't even paused, and as he finished weighing their bread he simply said, "Yes. It's true."

Cottia had stared at him as he wrapped the bread and placed it on the counter. She made no move to pick it up, just continued to scrutinise him until Aquila finally raised his eyebrows and asked, quite mildly, "Well?"

"You're stupid," Cottia decided. She tilted her head to the side, and added, "Good looking. But stupid."

Aquila blinked. "Thank you," he said. "I think."

"If it was _me,_ and the Capitol told me I didn't have to put my name in – well, then, I wouldn't," Cottia said frankly. "I wouldn't give them the satisfaction."

It was odd. Aquila had smiled at her, and Cottia had been powerless to do anything but smile back. _Esca_ had even had to fight the urge for a moment. For all the reasons Aquila was a terrible choice for Cottia's first crush, Esca could admit that he was handsome at least – tall, with dark brown hair, and broad-shouldered, strong from hefting heavy bags of flour. And he had a nice smile – somehow quiet and warm at the same time, the kind that disarmingly coaxed you into smiling back.

But then Esca remembered that Aquila's strong shoulders and his open face would never have cause to be twisted by the Pit, that Aquila didn't _have to_ put his name forward, and his urge to smile vanished.

Unnoticing of this, Aquila explained to Cottia, "That's funny – because that's exactly why I'm doing it. I won't give them the satisfaction."

And then, strangely, his eyes had met Esca's. Aquila's eyes were green, and searching, though he doesn't know what Aquila expected to find in his face. Had he meant Esca, when he spoke? Was Esca one of those people to whom he didn't want to give satisfaction? Or maybe he simply wanted Esca to look impressed – that Aquila would choose to forgo his advantage and take his chance with the rest of them. Esca stared back, and kept his face blank.

Oh, he'd believed Aquila would do as he said _,_ but that didn't change the fact that it was still just a gesture. Aquila had kept his eyes on Esca's, but the small smile had faded away to nothing.

He is not cruel to Aquila…but he is not kind either, because there is no point pretending that Aquila is like them. Like Esca.

He is so lost in the memory – Aquila's eyes and the slight dip of his head when he'd finally turned away, that he does not hear, at first, what Liathan says.

"What?" Esca has to ask.

Liathan turns to look at him, straight on, and repeats, "I'm leaving. Soon."

"Leaving?" Esca says, frowning. "To go where?"

Liathan makes a slight gesture of his hand that encompasses the trees around them and says, "Where do you think?"

"You're going to try and live in the woods?"

Liathan shrugs. He doesn't blink as he tells Esca, "I can fend for myself."

Esca shakes his head. It's true, he supposes – Liathan is a good hunter. If anyone could strike out on their own and stand a chance, it would be him. "What about your family?"

Liathan looks away. "There's always something," he says, voice distant. "There will always be something to stop you from going…if you let it." He glances at Esca again. "If you want to be _free_ , you'll go anyway."

Esca doesn't know what to say. It's true – the Capitol can treat them like this, because those in District 12 _let_ themselves be treated so. Because everyone's got a weak spot, a reason to lie down and take it. A mother. A father. A wife. A husband. Brothers. Sisters. Friends. Children. And in the end, they will all suffer anyway, because nothing ever changes, because no-one ever has the courage to stand up to the Capitol.

He holds Liathan's gaze. "I'll help – if I can." Liathan has a mother, and a younger sister and brother. His elder brother is married…with no children yet – so he will be able to help too, surely. Esca frowns and starts to think how things might be done.

"You could come with me," Liathan says instead.

Esca stares at him.

"If you wanted." Liathan stares back, intent, and Esca still doesn't know what to say.

Finally he manages, "I – wouldn't have thought you'd ask me."

"Who should I ask instead?"

Esca shrugs, irritably and tries to joke, "I don't know. Some girl."

"I think you'd be more useful," Liathan says, refusing to drop it, or laugh. The offer lies between them.

"I" – Esca says again, and it rises up, inexorably in his mind – the woods, he and Liathan, and all the dangers they would face – wild animals, poisonous plants and berries, injuries, the feral half-human experiments the Capitol may have left to roam outside the fenced-off District (there are always rumours)…and it all makes his heart seize up and almost stop with want, because the dangers seem nearly insignificant when set against the chance to finally live a life free of the Capitol.

And, at almost the same time, he finds himself saying, "Cottia" –

"There will always be something," Liathan reminds him. And then, as he gets to his feet, "Think about it, at least?"

Esca half-nods as he rises – it means a lot for Liathan to ask him. The very least his request deserves is for Esca to take it seriously.

"But not for too long," Liathan warns, before they part ways. "Because I'm going in the next few days."

It makes sense, Esca thinks, as he hides his bow, and crawls back under the fence, and walks through the Meadow. It would give them the best head start, while everyone's attention is focused on the Games. And then, afterwards…would there be that much uproar over two boys who'd run away, and were surely dead by now? To hunt in the woods is dangerous enough – but to live there? It would be easier for Old Aquila to report them dead, than to bother sending out a search party. Esca cannot imagine Old Aquila mustering up the outrage to risk good men for bad, especially not now, not after –

" _Come on, Esca, quick, before they find" –_ Marcus Aquila's voice pants in his ear, and Esca shakes his head to rid himself of the memory. No, Old Aquila will not send out a search party.

And if…if it is that easy, then maybe he can work something out with Cottia. For all his talk, Liathan surely does not mean to cast his family off entirely. It might be safe enough to arrange to meet, sometimes. If Cottia slipped beyond the fence, and waited just where the woods begin…Esca could even continue to bring her food.

The thought is bright and hot in his mind – so hopeful he can hardly bear to think it, but at the same time, he cannot leave it alone either. The streets are busier, and he passes quite a few people as he makes his way back to Cottia's house – but they are only shapes at the edge of his awareness, as he thinks about the woods, and Cottia, and Liathan, and how it is all to be managed.

Cottia and her family have already made their way to the square, but her father has left Esca a shirt and trousers, laid out on a chair in the empty kitchen. Esca changes as quickly as he can. The shirt doesn't fit him well, and the trousers are a little long, but they are much better than anything Esca has himself. He tucks in the shirt, and rolls the waistband of the trousers, before closing the door behind him and turning his face toward the square.

He's in plenty of time – there are enough people after him that need to be seen to that he manages to slip in unnoticed to the same row as Cottia. She darts her eyes at him and grins for a moment. Who cares where he stands while the names are drawn out? Anyway, Esca is short for his age – he can pass for fourteen.

The stage is set, and Mayor Aquila is already sitting up there, leaning across his seat to whisper to the District 12 escort – a businesslike woman called Sassticca. This year, she wears a long, drapey sort of gown, made of fabric that twists and pleats, and brushes the ground. Her hair seems to follow the design of her gown – a tall, complicated thing constructed of many small plaits and curls, which are further draped in gold chains. It is obviously a wig – Sassticca doesn't have that much hair. Esca doubts whether anyone in the world has that much hair.

"The Capitol has gone back to the classics," Cottia says to him, out of the side of her mouth, then cranes her neck as a dark-haired, bearded figure approaches the stage. Guern – District 12's only champion, hard faced and lean. He takes the third chair on the stage, and then it is two o' clock, and time for the Reaping to begin.

Mayor Aquila reads the same speech he always does, in the same rather dry, impersonal voice. If you listen to the tone, rather than the words detailing death and destruction, it's almost pleasant – Old Aquila reads well. It's not too long before he's done, gesturing toward Guern and saying, " – and if our esteemed champion has no wish to make a speech" –

Guern doesn't even stand, just shakes his head. As far as Esca can remember, he has never given a speech on the day of the Reaping. Old Aquila knows this too and finishes smoothly, "– then we shall move swiftly along and hand matters over to Sassticca."

Sassticca gets to her feet and says her piece. It's always brief, which Esca appreciates. He supposes there's no point in grandstanding in District 12, with its single victor. A few sentences about the sanctity of the Hunger Games and the honour of being chosen to represent District 12, and she is already crossing to the glass ball in the middle of the stage.

She reaches in, and everyone holds their breath.

Sassticca unfolds the slip of paper chosen, crosses back to the podium, looks over the crowd – and calls out the name.

Esca stares at her. He has heard wrong. Something is wrong with his ears, something is wrong with _him,_ because she did not call out –

 _Cottia._

He hears a shaky breath, and his head snaps to the right. Beside him, Cottia is pale, her freckles standing out against the ghost white of her skin. Her eyes are dazed and on her face, she is wearing the same disbelief Esca feels.

He catches hold of her wrist, and they both look down at the thin bones encircled by his fingers. "I have to go," she says, in a voice he has never heard her use before. And, a little firmer, "You have to let go, Esca."

He can't. But she simply reaches out and pulls his hand away. There's no strength in his fingers. And moving jerkily, she passes him, making her way down the path that leads to the stage.

They won't let him see her, Esca thinks. Before they leave for the Capitol, the tributes are allowed a last visit from their family. But he's not family, and Cottia's mother and father won't want to sacrifice even one of the last precious minutes with their daughter to – whatever Esca is to them.

He's moving, just like that, pushing past people and following in Cottia's footsteps. His mother. His father. His brother.

 _No._

He takes two more strides, and grabs Cottia's arm, turning her around and halting her a few paces from the stage.

The Capitol has taken them all – but it will _not_ take Cottia. He will not _allow_ the Capitol to take her, too. There are Peacekeepers stationed all around the square, and he can see some moving toward them, obviously fearing a disturbance in the orderly selection of children to be murdered, so he spits out, quick and fierce, " _I'll go_."

He glances around, not sure of who to appeal to. He catches the Mayor's impenetrable gaze, Sassticca's slightly open mouth, Cottia's shocked face. "Instead of her."

He looks around again, and just to be perfectly clear, so that no-one can take Cottia, he says, clearly, as loudly as Aquila's mad father had, " _I volunteer_."

"Esca – _no,_ " Cottia whispers in horror. Esca tries pull his mouth into a smile to reassure her, but she begins to shake her head and her blunt nails dig into his arms, as she repeats, growing louder and louder, "No! NO _–_ you _can't,_ ESCA, you CAN'T, I won't _" –_

It's almost a relief when she's pulled away from him by two Peacekeepers. Her mother and father will be waiting for her. She'll be okay.

He faces forward again, and the Mayor nods toward the stage. Old Aquila looks almost sympathetic. Esca concentrates on climbing up the stairs. The cuffs of his trousers are dragging on the ground again, and it's suddenly very important to him that he not trip and fall flat on his face in front of all these people. In front of the watching Capitol eyes.

"How wonderful," Sassticca says, sounding thrown, "to see someone from this District reach out and take this opportunity with both hands." The folds of her long dress hide it when she reaches out to squeeze his palm. Esca rips his hand away immediately. What good is kindness to him now?

The smile she's wearing hardly falters, as she asks him whether he has anything he would like to say.

"Last words, you mean?" Esca says bluntly. "No. I think I'll save them."

And he stands stonefaced, chin tilted up and eyes fixed on a point above the crowd. He doesn't want to see anyone's face. He grits his teeth and waits for it to be over.

Sassticca crosses to the glass ball again, but Esca doesn't turn to watch her. He won't give one more moment of entertainment to the Capitol than he has to.

He forgets this, though, when Sassticca hesitates. Sassticca is always professional and workmanlike, the best sort of district escort, and she never hesitates before she reads out the names. So when she pauses, Esca looks at her. It's only for a moment, a slight hitch in the smooth running of things as Sassticca presses her lips together before continuing.

It makes dread rise up in Esca though, because why would she pause? What reason would Sassticca have to pause…that is…unless…

She looks up and reads the name to the waiting crowd.

 _Marcus Aquila._


End file.
